


Quite Astonishing

by surrenderdammit



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, One Shot, Sherlock of your choice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:27:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28318188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surrenderdammit/pseuds/surrenderdammit
Summary: "Watson," he calls, impatient now that he's properly indulged in his own displeasure regarding their situation. "I realize you think you will catch the scoundrel sneaking around the premises if you stare hard enough, but as I have previously stated, he is otherwise engaged until tomorrow. We are, unfortunately, stuck here until then."(A gift to my better half!)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	Quite Astonishing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EclecticRegard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EclecticRegard/gifts).



> A Christmas present for my better half. I hope you enjoy it bb! 
> 
> General notes: I was a bit rushed on time since it was taking me quite long to write this. I'm rusty when it comes to Holmes fics, I'm afraid! I did my best though.
> 
> This isn't based on any specific version of Sherlock Holmes. It could be from the books, or the RDJ movies, or the Granada series, etc. It's up to the reader's choice because it really doesn't affect the story much other than the fact that it's set in the past so for it to be BBC Sherlock it would have to be an AU lol.
> 
> Anyway, there's really no plot in this just a glimpse of the romantic relationship between Holmes and Watson.
> 
> Forgive any grammatic errors/typos, this hasn't been beta read and English isn't my first language :P
> 
> Enjoy! Hopefully!

oOo

Sherlock sighs as he stares blankly at the wooden ceiling of the cottage. He lies stiff on an uncomfortable cot that's too short for his long limbs, but it's a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things. He turns his head and lets his gaze trail across the room to rest upon his dear Watson, standing by the window and looking out ever vigilant. He's been stationed there for what feels like an age, but Sherlock has not deemed it necessary to keep track of time ever since they entered this Godforsaken hut of a house.

"Watson," he calls, impatient now that he's properly indulged in his own displeasure regarding their situation. "I realize you think you will catch the scoundrel sneaking around the premises if you stare hard enough, but as I have previously stated, he is otherwise engaged until tomorrow. We are, unfortunately, stuck here until then."

Watson sighs, a visible motion that has his shoulders drooping from his otherwise perfectly stiff, military-standard posture. He turns, and looks upon Sherlock with a frown. He's concerned and annoyed, that much is obvious, and Sherlock would usually not care. It's fleeting, after all, and they are close enough to finishing the case that Sherlock knows it will fade away and be replaced with giddy admiration and pride. 

Today, however, they have unexpectedly found themselves stuck in the countryside with nothing to do but _wait_ . It's a practice Sherlock detests, when all he wants to be is _in motion_ . He's had his epiphany, has figured it all out, but instead of the usual instant gratification he has to _wait_ , because Mister Harlow decided to make a detour before coming here to dig up the evidence and burn it to ash.

Truly unprofessional of him, Sherlock thinks. An idiot of a murderer whose mystery had been accidentally complex due to the stupidity of man. To think Sherlock had been excited at the beginning of this adventure, it is truly tragic.

"I know you said he would be delayed, but you have yet to explain to me how you know this, Holmes," Watson says, offering an unnecessary explanation to his frustrations. As if Sherlock can't read the man like a book, the well-read one with the worn pages and the honourable placement on the bedside table. 

"The details are unnecessary," Sherlock dismisses, swinging his legs off the bed and pushing himself up into a sitting position. He gets up from the unfortunate cot, and walks over to the fretting Doctor, intent to smooth out the frown pinching his brows together. "All you need to know is that he will not be here until tomorrow, and until then, I am going to need a distraction if you do not wish for me to tear this place down rotten plank by rotten plank out of sheer frustrated boredom."

Watson's frown does indeed go away, replaced by an amused smirk and a raised brow. His dear friend might not be the most intelligent, by Sherlock's standards, but he's far brighter than the usual sheep. And to his credit, Watson has a unique insight regarding Sherlock himself, one that Sherlock has yet to figure out how on Earth he mastered.

"And what, pray tell my dear Holmes, would that distraction be?" Watson wonders, unnecessarily coy when they both know exactly what Sherlock is asking for, however crudely. But Watson knows how it winds him up, and Sherlock has yet to manage the strength to play unaffected.

Huffing with impatience, Sherlock reaches for the lapels of Watson's jacket, pulling him close and looking at him with what he hopes is a fierce glare. The fond look on his lover's face is a sign of his failure, though this thought is quick to run away when he leans in to kiss him.

As usual, the brush of John's moustache sends tingles of anticipation through his body. It's an instant reaction, Sherlock's body remembering what this has brought him in the past, a promise of pleasure and warmth, moments where his mind disengages and his body takes over.

That might be an erroneous statement. His mind does not stop working, it just switches focus, narrowing onto his lover and the curious sensations he manages to tease out of Sherlock's body. It's quite fascinating what a kiss can do.

"Mm, I have my doubts that the cot will hold, my love," John murmurs against his mouth, his hands cupping Sherlock's cheeks as he puts a stop to their kisses. "Do you really want to put it to the test?" 

Sherlock scoffs, pulling at his man, walking them towards the only flat surface of the blasted cottage that won't give them splinters in vulnerable places.

"I spent quite some time upon arrival laying down on the damned thing, John, I cannot imagine you do not already know I have thoroughly calculated the odds of it withstanding your particular brand of _lovemaking_ ," he sneers, impatience and arousal making his tongue sharp. John doesn't care, too used to the bite, and merely pushes Sherlock down onto his back again. He's a welcome weight on top, crawling between Sherlock's legs and planting his forearms on either side of Sherlock's head to hover close over him.

"Mm, let's sweeten that sour mood of yours," John says with a wicked grin, leaning down to capture Sherlock's protesting mouth in a deep, positively filthy kiss. On a gasp, Sherlock lets his lover's tongue inside, flushing at the indecency of it all. John is shameless, carnal to the core, a being of sensuality that contrasts Sherlock's own seemingly pristine, practical character. It's overwhelming yet addictive, a kind of pleasure Sherlock doesn't indulge in unless it is with him. Only John could safely take him to these heights, knowing how to touch and how to whisper words that calms his mind before it gets to be too much.

"You are quite the study of contrasts, my dear," John murmurs, using one hand to unbutton his own shirt as Sherlock starts to remove his own clothes. It would have been easier, and the smarter choice, to do this while standing. But this variation of intimacy rarely comes with any intelligent thought. "My Sherlock is all sharp edges and sinewy muscles, but look here...the pretty flush on your skin. You're pale like a lady, delicate and decadent, and blushes so easily when I touch you."

It should be shameful, the way John's words rush over him. They should stir indignation, the implication supposedly condescending to a man, especially one who resents the fragile nature of other people. Instead they offer him a warm rush of thrilling pleasure, flattery like this an unusual kind. He feels sensual, admired, in a way he has never deemed necessary or even desirable. His body is but a shell to carry his mind around, nothing he had taken much pride in beyond his ability to utilize it effectively. He is grateful for the way his body allows him to play the violin, he is proud of the level of skills he has mastered in the martial arts and how well he can disguise himself, to put on a show worthy of praise. 

But he has never been handsome, or been praised with such frivolous words. It was a novel experience, one that still fascinates him, and he finds it too enjoyable to resist it. He is not one to deny himself certain pleasures, and the ones John Watson evokes in him through words and touch are private enough, secret enough, for him to fully indulge.

Careful of his stiff leg, John kneels on the bed and removes his jacket, vest and shirt. Sherlock follows suit, already bare chested and kicking off his trousers by the time John lies back down.

"I don't suppose you took any slick with you on this delightful little trip to the countryside?" John muses teasingly, keeping himself propped up on an elbow as he lets his free hand roam over Sherlock's bare skin. Sherlock scoffs in reply, unwilling to admit that not even he - Sherlock Holmes himself - had planned _that_ thoroughly. To divert all attention away from this oversight, Sherlock takes it upon himself to make his lover more comfortable. Although he prefers John on top of him, it is hard on his leg, and they aren't in the comfort of their own home at the moment. 

With expertise, Sherlock rolls them over, narrowly avoiding tipping them off the cot entirely.

"Now, I know very well how creative you are, my dear," Sherlock says as he straddles John's hips and sits up until his bare bottom presses against the rough fabric of his lover's trousers. "And not only with the written word. Your ingenuity when it comes to the carnal pleasures quite overshadows it, even."

Grinding down, feeling how stiff and roused he has made his doctor already, puts an accomplished grin on his face. He tries not to flush with excitement, but it is difficult when John's pretty eyes darken and his face twists into a look of heated determination. 

"My dear Sherlock," John says, voice rough and filled with promise. "In this particular field, I am indeed the master. Let me show you, my darling."

Words have never made Sherlock breathless, but that was before John Watson. What a dreary existence that had been, he thinks, feeling himself slowly unravel as John takes over. His Watson is a man of his word, after all.

  
  


oOo

"So what's the plan now then, Holmes?" Watson inquires, his arms crossed and a brow raised as he surveys the scene.

Arthur Harlow sits unconscious on the floor of the cottage, bound with ropes and sporting a quite impressive lump on the back of his head. Sherlock admires the handiwork, truly. Watson's gun came in handy once more, only this time it didn't need to be fired. A solid, precise hit with the butt of the gun had rendered the foul man unresponsive within moments. 

"I estimate that Lestrade will be upon us soon, if my message reached him in time," Sherlock muses, sitting as comfortably as he can on the rumpled cot. He thinks of the young girl dressed as a boy, her hair short and face dirty from the streets, taking his coin as he made haste to modify his plans after he discovered Harlow's impulsive detour to his lover. Lestrade would have arrived too early otherwise, possibly ruining their chance to catch Harlow off guard. Luckily the girl seems to have been as trustworthy as he had hoped, since there had been no sign of the police and their clumsy boots alerting the suspect. 

Watson shakes his head a sighs, sitting down next to Sherlock with a smile.

"Ah, your mind is brilliant, my love," he praises him, reaching up to brush hair off Sherlock's forehead before he leans in to kiss the skin there. It's an affectionate gesture that feels out of place with a stranger wounded and bound just across the room, making Sherlock recoil much to Watson's obvious amusement.

"A plan is rarely foolproof, Watson, therefore it is in one's best interest to always have a contingency in place," Sherlock lectures him as he places a hand on Watson's knee, rubbing his thumb against the fabric of his trousers in a silent apology that he refuses to acknowledge out loud. "Once I figured out that our murderer over there thought it imperative to visit his lover one last time before going back for the evidence and destroying it, I knew I had to reach Lestrade somehow in order to stall our plan. Luckily, street urchins will do good work for the right amount of coin."

"So that's why Harlow was late," Watson murmurs to himself, frowning, before he looks over at Sherlock and grins. "Well, a street urchin is more likely to take the coin and run unless they know they're working for the great Sherlock Holmes. Should it frighten me or impress me that your Baker Street Irregulars seem to have spread across the country?"

Sherlock laughs, patting Watson's thigh and ignoring the heated look he gets from the touch.

"I should think I'm both impressive _and_ frightening, my dear," he replies coyly, suddenly feeling quite impatient for Lestrade to arrive and take the foul beast away. He wishes to act freely again, to shrug off the stiff coat of civility and fall into the indulgent and sensual embrace of his lover's affection. He finds himself in this mood frequently after a particularly indulgent exchange involving naked skin and bodily fluids, impatient to have _John_ with him rather than _Watson_.

"That you are, my friend," Watson concedes, before silence falls between them. While Watson keeps a careful eye on their captive, Sherlock allows his mind to wander as time passes.

It could be minutes or hours later when the door to the cottage is flung open and a flustered Lestrade comes flying through, a couple of officers on his tail. It startles Sherlock out of his own mind place, making him blink rapidly as he takes in the world again, making note of the fact that Watson has stood from his place next to him and is already greeting their inspector friend.

"We have your murderer tied up and ready to deliver," Watson says, gesturing to the man still slumped over unconscious and unresponsive. "He took quite the hit to his head and has been unconscious the whole time, most likely because of the stress he's been under. His physical state seems weakened, but he will most likely awake if you have some cold water or smelling salts at hand. Might make it easier to move him if he has the use of his own legs."

Sherlock watches the exchange with impatience, his meditative state interrupted. With it gone he is reminded of his need to take Watson away and return to their properly private space away from here.

"In either case, our job here is done and only yours remain," Sherlock declares loudly, getting up from the cot and patting Lestrade's shoulder with an air of mockery. "It should be simple enough for you to not require any hand-holding from us. Watson, we'll take our leave. Good day, my good sirs."

With haste, Sherlock brushes past the officers and is out the door within moments, dismissing any calls for his attention and ignoring any well wishes said in return. He knows Watson is smoothing things over even as he's hurrying to keep up, very used to Sherlock's abrupt exits. The police's horses and carriage stands parked outside and along with it is a second horse and carriage, just per his instructions. Lestrade might be a bit of a fool, but he does know how to do a task once he's been given it.

"Come along Watson, Baker Street awaits!" he calls out excitedly, not even bothering to look behind him as he climbs onto the carriage. It will be a long way back into the village, and another long way to travel with the train back to London. They won't arrive home before dark, but Sherlock doesn't mind.

He will suffer from the amount of sitting required, however. He winces as he settles into the seat in the carriage, shooting Watson an exasperated look once the man climbs in after him. He watches in silence as Watson takes his cane and taps the roof, signaling for the driver to start, and wonders at his own willingness to suffer discomfort in exchange for something that used to repulse him. 

"You are quite astonishing, my dear Watson," Sherlock declares out loud, enjoying the confused look on his lover's face. Instead of explaining himself, Sherlock merely turns to watch the world run past them through the window, smiling to himself as he feels John reach for his hand. He does nothing to resist as John laces their fingers together and rests their clasped hands on the seat between them, no gloves to dull the feeling of their connection. 

A little occasional discomfort is nothing compared to what he gains from this, Sherlock decides. A thought like that would have been foreign to him, before, and most unwelcome. John Watson is, indeed, quite astonishing.

oOo

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I was going to write the whole sex scene but decided to skip it in order to meet my own deadline lol :P Hope you liked it anyway!
> 
> Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays to everyone out there, I hope you're doing okay!


End file.
